


Like Water Off A Wolf's Back

by mekana47



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: 5+1 Things, Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. References, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, Clint Barton-centric, Falling In Love, Getting Together, M/M, Minor Clint Barton/Bobbi Morse, Pre-Avengers (2012), not a/b/o, shifter!Clint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-30
Updated: 2019-02-08
Packaged: 2019-10-19 03:39:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17593919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mekana47/pseuds/mekana47
Summary: Clint bristles. He might be a wolf shifter, and Coulson may have been the one to bring him in, but he’s no one’s puppy.-or-Five times "Coulson's puppy" was an insult, and one time it wasn't.





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Four years after I prompted Clint getting called "Coulson's puppy" on AvengerKink, I've finally filled my own request.

Clint’s already expecting a terrible debriefing when Fury himself walks into the conference room and settles in the corner with a couple folders. 

Most of the other agents can’t help the obvious glances at the director, but Fury doesn’t say anything. As Agent Smithers clears his throat and starts with the standard overview of their failed mission, Clint kicks his feet onto the polished table. 

It should be fun to watch everyone try not to blame each other in front of the director.

Sometimes Fury flips through a file, but Clint doesn’t worry much. He logged his concerns before the mission, and his part went smoothly. Besides, there’s only so much empathy he’s willing to give to a team lead who sneered at his concerns and treated him like an inconvenience just because he’s in the loaner pool for whichever team needs a sniper. 

Or maybe Smithers is biased against shifters. As much as Shield pretends it’s a progressive organization, Clint’s faced more than enough bigots since his recruitment.

“Barton,” Smithers says after half an hour. “Anything to add?”

Clint takes a moment to consider the question, but it’s not worth the risk that he’ll come off looking petty. “Nope.”

Smithers raises an eyebrow and flicks his eyes toward Fury. “Add anyway.”

Clint lets his feet drop from the table and straightens his spine. He probably has to make this seem deferential or he’ll finish this debrief with another reprimand in his file.

“I took the perch on the southeast corner, according to the plan.” Clint sticks with the facts. Maybe that will be good enough for Smithers. “The rain put a sheen on the windows, but it wasn’t bad enough to cause a problem. I saw the mark leave his office and reported it. The plan relied on him going right, but he turned left and dropped into a blind spot. I kept watch until I got the call to pack it in and rendez-vous.”

“What would you do differently next time?” Fury keeps looking at his file, but his soft voice commands everyone’s attention. 

Other agents tense as if they’d managed to forget he was in the room even while stealing glances at him.

Clint drums his fingers on his empty coffee mug. “Nothing.”

Fury looks up at him, his one eye pinning Clint in his chair. “You wouldn’t have gone for the southwest corner instead. You said here yourself you would have better sightlines if the mark detoured to the break room instead of the toilet.”

“What?” The hot smell of Smithers’ anger fills the room.

Clint holds Fury’s gaze and says, “I had orders from my team lead, so I logged the comment. There was nothing more I could do.”

Smithers slams a palm into the table, and the agent beside him jumps. “Agent Barton, you can’t just-” 

Clint whips his head around, his eyes narrow. “I answer to more than just you.”

“Ah, yes,” Smithers snarls, leaning forward. “We all know you’re Coulson’s puppy, but I didn’t realize you went running to him every time you thought you knew better than upper level agents.”

Clint bristles. He might be a wolf shifter, and Coulson may have been the one to bring him in, but he’s no one’s puppy.

He takes a steadying breath and glances at Fury, but the director’s watching Smithers. Maybe he’s also wondering when Smithers decided to replace arrogance with outright antagonism.

“Actually,” Clint says, “I haven’t seen _Agent_ Coulson since my intake more than two years ago. Deputy Director Hill set up this system.” Smithers pales, but Clint plows ahead. “I make my argument once and if the Team Lead overrules me, I record my suggestion in that file. She thought Team Leads might prefer I point out the flaws in their plans on paper instead of calling them out for ignoring a good strategy in front of their entire team. But I can do both.”

Actually, her exact words had been ‘Stop telling Leads they’re stupid or you’ll end up with so many reprimands no one will work with you.’ 

Close enough, really.

Clint had suspected they might run the stats on his analyses at some point, but he hadn’t expected anyone to be paying attention to him so soon. Being in the pool was a punishment, after all.

Clint leans forward, and Smithers, to his credit, doesn’t flinch back.

“I told you the southwest corner had better sightlines for the entire floor, and if you’d listened to me, we would have intercepted the package like we were supposed to. On the last mission you and I had together, the mark wouldn’t have gotten away if you’d let me take a perch inside the building instead of insisting on the roof. On the one before that, you put me on a building without a fire escape, so I couldn’t provide close-range backup. Our inside agent was nearly dead by the time your team got to her. Should I go on?”

“You can’t know-” Smithers starts, red spreading across his cheeks.

“You might be my senior in terms of levels, but I know shooting and I have speed you refuse to use to your advantage.”

“Enough. Both of you.” Fury gathers the files and rises to his feet. “Agent Barton, come with me. Let’s see what we can do about getting you on a better team.”

The other agents don't need Clint's enhanced eyesight to see Smithers’ flinch. 

Clint doesn’t bother to hide his smile as he stands. Being a loaner’s a bitch.


	2. Two

Clint arches off the couch until his back pops and he sags back down to his stomach on the worn cushions. Coulson actually glances over from his computer, so Clint offers a jaunty wave.

“Finished with all your requisition forms?” 

“Trainee shooting evaluations and my latest mission report are.”

Coulson hums and turns back to his monitor.

Clint scowls and shuffles his forms to the next blank one. He avoided most of his paperwork for weeks, but this morning Coulson called him into his office, shoved a pile of papers in his hands, and threatened to bench him if he didn’t get through his backlog. Clint hasn’t seen Coulson make any idle threats, so he hasn’t been off this couch in at least two hours.

He pens in the request for more arrows, checking off boxes down the page. Most of the forms and reports aren’t difficult. The range is just more appealing than trying to keep up with the endless paperwork. 

“Category number for arrows?” Clint asks.

Coulson rattles off the six digits without breaking the stride in his typing.

Clint signs the form and flips to a team member’s final report from a mission three weeks ago. He squirms onto his back and settles in to check the accuracy in the retelling.

The knock on the door has him slipping to his feet in an instant, adrenaline spiking. From the little pinch in Coulson’s forehead, he’s not expecting visitors. 

“Come in,” Coulson calls even as he waves Clint back to the couch. 

Clint sits, but he keeps his weight forward and twists around so he has a better view of the door. Maybe this is a chance to escape.

A man in civilian clothes sweeps into the room. He smells fresh from the shower, but something about his posture makes Clint itch, and all thoughts of making a break for the door disappear.

“John,” Coulson leans back in his chair with the softest smile Clint’s ever seen. “I didn’t know you were back in the country.”

“Just got cleared from the medical bays an hour ago,” John crosses to the desk and holds out his hand for Coulson to shake. “Thought I’d stop by and see what’s changed in the last three months.”

John stuffs his hands in his pockets and rocks on his toes like he has no cares in the world. Clint narrows his eyes, his opinion of this agent dropping with every second John doesn’t realize someone else is in the room. How can someone who’s friends with Coulson be so oblivious to his surroundings?

“Are you free for lunch?” John asks.

Coulson flicks his eyes over to Clint and cocks his head. “Not right now. We’ll need another 20 to wrap this up, I think.”

Clint watches with satisfaction as John’s shoulders jerk at the word “we” and he twists around, his hand reaching for a gun that isn’t there. John relaxes fast, a small smile tugging at his lips as he rakes his gaze up and down Clint, not even bothering to be subtle about his appraisal.

“Well, now, I didn’t get a whole lot of scuttlebutt while I was away, but everyone’s been talking about Coulson’s puppy getting reassigned.”

Clint keeps his face carefully blank as the insult lands and his stomach twists with outrage. He meets John’s eyes but stays silent and unnaturally still. Barney always told him he had the perfect resting murder face, and a human’s concern about the wolf does the rest of the work.

John turns back to Coulson, the faintest hint of fear rising from his skin. “We should catch up another time then, Phil.”

“Of course. Let me know, and I’ll put you on my calendar.” Coulson’s smile has tightened back into the political one rather than the real one, and Clint wonders if John can see the difference.

“Will do,” John says with a mocking salute. Then he’s out the door.

Coulson holds Clint’s gaze for a long moment, and Clint thinks he might be about to apologize for someone else’s actions. Instead, he sighs and looks at the forms Clint didn’t realize are still in his hands. 

“Finish those in the next ten minutes, and I’ll sign you out for that Thai place around the corner.”

Clint cocks his head, waiting, but when Coulson doesn’t say anything else, he just nods. He doesn’t need an apology, but any chance to get off base for an hour is worth the extra effort.


	3. Three

Clint scans the mostly plain suburban house from the sidewalk. Four cameras hide around the eaves and the front door. A constant soft whirl hints at a motion sensor somewhere on the path, and the way the welcome mat lies makes Clint think there’s probably a pressure sensor under the left side. Nothing moves beyond the lacy curtains, but his nose doesn’t lie. 

His taps his phone in his hand a few times, looking for a clean route in if it should come to that. The phone finally rings as he’s contemplating the chimney. He definitely wouldn’t fit through it, but it’d sure send a statement. 

“Are you going to come inside?” Natasha’s voice is calm, but Clint thinks he can detect a waiver in the question.

“Anything going to blow up if I do?”

Natasha snorts, and Clint hangs up, surprised to find he’s grinning. 

He strides up the path, dodging a crack that looks too intentional and avoiding the welcome mat altogether. The door knob turns easily under his hand, and he steps into a home that looks straight from a magazine. The floors only bear the faintest trace of footprints, but everything else looks bright, crisp, and untouched.

He follows Natasha’s scent to the kitchen and drops onto the island’s bar stool as she pours two fresh cups of coffee. The silence doesn’t bother Clint, but he can see her shoulders slowly ticking higher and higher.

“Why’d you run?” he asks to give her a break. 

She freezes like she didn’t expect him to be so direct. It’s not the first time he wonders just how many shifters she worked with in The Red Room to have such strong expectations.

“You don’t know?” 

She passes him a mug. He can tell before he even tastes it that she’s used the same brand of beans he keeps stashed in Coulson’s office for bad days. 

“I have some ideas,” Clint concedes. 

Natasha leans back against the far counter and takes a calm sip. Anyone else would think she wasn’t at risk of being added to the top of Shield’s blacklist. 

Clint sets aside his mug, still mostly full. “Should I guess then?”

“We’ve only had two missions together. You think you know me so well, already?” Something about Natasha’s gaze is more unnerving than the way most people stare at him. 

“They sent me after you, didn’t they?

“Because you’re Coulson’s puppy, trained to follow orders and track down people who don’t want to be found.”

Clint can’t smother his flinch in time, and Natasha freezes, her head slowly tilting as she considers him. Then she tips her head in something Clint thinks is an apology, but he’s feeling too betrayed to accept cryptic gestures. 

“My guess,” he snaps, “is you needed to see how far you could go. Would Shield put a kill order out immediately? How long would you manage to stay gone? What would be the consequences when you came back?”

“What makes you think I want to go back?” Natasha’s flat voice irritates him even more, and he can’t get any hints from her scent with the coffee in the air.

“You invited me inside for this conversation,” he ticks off on his fingers. “You’re only upstate from HQ when you could easily have been out of the country by now. There aren’t any guns in this room—”

“I don’t need a gun.”

Clint raises an eyebrow and leans back in his seat. He’s not an idiot. “I know.”

Natasha falls silent again, watching him watch her. 

“To answer your questions,” Clint finally says, softly, “there’s no kill order on you yet. If you come back with me now, you’ll probably be on probation for an extra six months, but I think they’ll understand why you did it.”

After all, Shield had taken him back when he ran off after his fourth mission, and he’d been running for the same reasons.

“And two days,” Natasha says into her coffee mug.

“What?”

Natasha crosses to the island, her palms flat against the bright clean surface as she leans forward. “I only stayed hidden for two days.”

Clint shrugs. He might have found her quicker if Fury’s first response hadn’t been to assume Clint had a conflict of interest and order him to stand down. But it could’ve taken longer too. Coulson had seen what Clint saw and successfully fought to send Clint after their partner. From there, Clint had simply followed the list he’d already been building of likely aliases with property in a three-hour radius. It was mostly luck that this was the third place on his list. 

“I hope the other safe houses you didn’t disclose are under better aliases.”

Natasha’s mouth flickers, and with her standing so close, something like amusement tingles in Clint’s nose. He’ll call Coulson with the good news after they finish their coffee, but this is enough for now.


	4. Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's left kind comments on the previous chapters, and thank you for everyone who's waited patiently for this chapter while I've been dealing with a literal monsoon for the past week. You all make my day brighter.

Clint slumps against the doorframe and fumbles out his keys. His meetings had gone on far longer than he’d expected, and his eyes keep trying to close on their own. He manages to single out the right key, but the door jerks open from the inside and he pinwheels. His wrist slams into the doorframe before he find his balance.

He glares up at Bobbi, but she merely crosses her arms, her expression blank. That’s never a good sign.

He pushes himself upright and takes a step forward, but she holds up a hand.

“Don’t make this harder than it has to be, Clint.” Her voice is as empty as her face.

He freezes at the packed bags leaning against the far wall. His packed bags.

“Bobbi…”

She shakes her head, straightening into her agent persona, but Clint doesn’t know if she’s trying to show she means business or she’s trying to protect herself. Her scent gives nothing away, but living with him has improved her scent control.

“We’re through, so grab your bags and go.”

Clint scrubs a hand over his forehead, struggling to keep up. They’ve fought plenty of times before, but most of their break ups involved broken plates and shouting matches that scared the neighbors. This quiet finality hurts more.

“Can’t we talk about this?” Clint takes a step toward her, but she merely moves back to let him out of the hallway.

“There’s nothing to talk about. You’re always halfway out the door, ready to jump as soon as Coulson calls you for anything, even just a day of meetings.”

Clint frowns. It’s their job to go when they’re called.

“Everyone told me you were Coulson’s puppy, but I didn’t want to believe it. I didn’t want to think you would be the type to ditch me every chance you get, but you run off every time he asks.”

Clint barely notices the insult. “Bobbi, please…”

“I can’t be second, Clint. I won’t be.”

Clint smothers his snarl. “You aren’t second to me.”

“I am.” 

This cool, collected Bobbi makes him squirm. At least when she’s throwing things, he can shout back while dodging the plates she actually aims at him. His hands itch for some way to make this discomfort go away.

“I know you think you love me,” she continues, “and maybe you actually do, but I deserve to be someone’s first priority, and I can’t be that when you look to Coulson as your alpha.”

Clint flinches, stumbling back a step at her words. Phil’s not his alpha. Sure, a shifter’s pack instincts can include anyone they respect and protect, but shifters following non-shifters? It doesn’t happen.

Bobbi lets her arms drop and her shoulders heave with a noiseless sigh. 

“You hadn’t even noticed, had you?”

It’s all too much, but if he leaves now, Bobbi will never let him back into her life.

“I—“

Bobbi shakes her head, everything about her still soft. “This is better for both of us. Just go, Clint.”

Clint’s shoulders drop, and he struggles not to curl in on himself as if that would make this pain in his stomach fade. He must be leaking distress all over the room. He crosses to his bags, tangling his fingers in the straps, but he can’t bring himself to look away from her.

She puts her hands on her hips and jerks her chin to the door. “Go. You don’t live here anymore.”

Clint squeezes his eyes shut for a moment before he hitches his bags on his shoulders and leaves their apartment. He pauses in the hallway with his back to the door, trying to find the one thing he can say to save their relationship.

“Think about what I said,” Bobbi says. “About Coulson. I do want you to be happy.”

The door clicking closed tears through him, but he forces himself to walk. Once on the street, he considers hailing a cab to Phil’s apartment, but he won’t find any answers there. 

He starts walking, instead. 

Hopefully, Natasha won’t turn him away.


	5. Five

The wannabe mad scientist holding Clint and Phil hostage walks into the room, tapping a wrench against his hand like a movie gangster. Clint wants to roll his eyes, but he’s still hoping to minimize the damage. Their capture two days ago was rough on both of them, and Roberts has been playing the air supply to Clint’s plastic cell ever since.

Clint throws a glance through the clear wall separating his and Phil’s cells, but Phil focuses on Roberts.

Two more goons follow Roberts to the intercom that lets his voice flood their cells.

“Have you decided to cooperate today?” Roberts asks Phil.

Phil doesn’t say anything, and Clint follows his lead. He hadn't realized how much he'd come to rely on Phil’s scent to anticipate his plans until Roberts took that away.

Roberts hums and taps the wrench on his palm again before he throws a glance at Clint.

Natasha’s never going to let them live down needing a rescue team, but Roberts hasn’t ventured near their doors once.

“Your puppy’s looking a little rough.”

Phil doesn’t rise to the bait, but Clint bristles. Clint’s had worse than what he suspects are cracked ribs and a knife wound that’s starting to itch in a bad way. He’s gone longer without taking his wolf form, but something about the restriction has his skin crawling with the need to shift. 

“He doesn’t seem to like my aerosol cocktail very much,” Roberts tells Phil. “But then it must be frustrating, not being able to shift and heal, no?”

Phil still doesn’t answer.

“I wouldn’t really know,” Roberts continues unperturbed. “Shifting’s a nasty thing, but I’d guess it must be driving him crazy, knowing he could fix all his problems so fast, fix those ribs that are keeping him awake, fix that leg injury before it gets infected, but no. Not this time.”

Whatever Roberts has pumped into Clint’s air has left him with his instincts and his senses, and Roberts’ gaze feels like oil on Clint’s skin.

“How much do you think he’d survive, hmm?” Roberts asks Phil even as his eyes linger on Clint. “I’m sure your organization has research on the limitations of shifters. We have some, of course. Maybe I’ll let you see it after we get another data point.”

Clint can’t help but roll his eyes this time, and Roberts notices.

“What’s the matter, puppy?”

Clint’s mouth twists into a dangerous smile as he imagines ripping the man’s throat out with his teeth. Roberts sneers and snaps something at his minions. One of them heads to the control panel outside Clint’s box.

“What do you want?” Phil finally asks. His voice is steady, but Clint knows his smell wouldn’t match his tone. 

So far, Roberts has only shown interest in tormenting Clint for the sake of his so-called ‘medical experiments.’

Roberts grins at Phil. “Just a little test. I think this combination shows real promise for unruly puppies.”

The hiss of Clint’s air supply changes pitch, but Clint keeps his face carefully blank. The last test had made his joints burn for hours. The one before that had knocked him out immediately.

The explosion isn’t entirely unexpected, nor are the Shield teams that come rushing in from both doors. The goons both reach for their guns, but they don’t get them out of their holsters before they’re bleeding on the ground. 

Clint doesn’t notice what happens to Roberts as the first bit of contaminated air fills his lungs. His throat constricts, and he digs his fingers into the ratty cot beneath him. He wheezes in a breath, fighting the urge to curl in on himself. He coughs, gasps in another breath, and coughs harder. His bruised ribs spasm, and he can’t bite back a cry. He’s getting air, but it tastes heavy and there’s not enough.

He drops off the cot to his knees and coughs until he wretches. His ribs scream and spots swarm in front of his vision. It could be the pain or the poison.

“Barton!” 

Clint doesn’t look up as he wretches again. Moving’s too much effort, but Sitwell’s voice is a welcome distraction.

Clint coughs again, but he can already tell the air’s cleaner, Sitwell’s scent pushing through the contamination. A hand slides around his shoulder and urges him upright. The groan slips out before he can control it. 

Someone slides an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth. He should be paying attention to his surroundings, but it feels so much better to keep his eyes shut.

“Can you stand?” Sitwell asks.

Clint nods and opens his eyes. Climbing to his feet is more effort than it should be, but he keeps upright. The urge to shift almost overwhelms him, but he clings to this form. Most Shield agents are scared enough of him already, and they have Roberts pinned down the corner.

A medic holds the portable oxygen tank and gestures to the hole in the warehouse wall. “Let’s go.”

Clint takes a wobbling step before he gets his balance and follows her outside, his eyes sweeping for Phil with every step. She opens the back of a van and gestures for him to sit just inside. Clint slumps against the interior as much as his ribs will let him. The medic manipulates his leg to look at the wound, and exhaustion pulls Clint’s eyes half-closed. 

He doesn’t even notice Phil until he’s crouched in front of his face.

“Phllll,” Clint slurs. 

He yanks the oxygen mask down, ignoring the medic’s protests to take in Phil’s scent: alive, a little pain, mostly something Clint thinks is relief. Clint takes another lungful of Phil and starts coughing again. He cries out as his ribs throb, then protests as Phil pulls the oxygen mask back up.

“Not a word.” Phil climbs into the van and settles next to him.

Clint huffs, but he might be able to handle not smelling Phil a little longer, especially if their shoulders keep brushing with every breath Clint manages.


	6. Plus One

Clint waits in the shadows of the warehouse as Melinda May and three other people cross the open space. May heaves open the rolling door, and the four of them disappear into the town with the clank of the door closing again. 

It really shouldn’t be this easy. 

When Clint decided to come to The Bus a day earlier than Phil was expecting him, he assumed this would be a challenge. These people are supposed to be looking after Phil while he recovers from death. Clint’s supposed to trust these agents to have his own back while he does this one mission for them. 

Clint jumped at the chance to do surveillance on a mark that knew all of Phil’s team.

Natasha teased him about his eagerness, but she still scratched behind his ears when he curled up on her couch as a wolf. 

She was happy for both of them.

He crosses the open space, pausing half-tucked behind the open ramp. No noise comes from inside, but the regular updates and video sessions with Phil have informed him that at least one team member is uncounted for. Human scents linger inside, but nothing seems fresh enough to be a concern.

Clint doesn’t know exactly what to expect when he slips onto the Bus. The plane is a work of art, no doubt, and Clint’s beginning to understand why Phil is willing to stay away so long. As he darts across the cargo hold, he glances at items, but he doesn’t linger. There’s time to learn more about the facilities later.

In the hallways, Clint navigates the plane with the ease of someone who stole the blueprints months ago and someone who knows if Phil didn’t go to town with the others, he’s likely still in his office.

A television plays somewhere in front of him, and Clint hesitates, pressed against the wall at an intersection. If this were an actual infiltration mission, he’d double back and take the other hallway to avoid the open space ahead of him. It’d double the time to Phil’s office, unless he stashed his gear and shifted, but it would almost guarantee he wouldn’t get caught. 

This isn’t an official mission, though, and the closer he gets to Phil, the more his mind and fingers itch to feel his warm, living skin again.

Clint’s made his point making it this far anyway.

He pushes off the wall and strides down the middle of the corridor like he has every right to be there. His steps are still nearly silent, but the girl on the couch looks up as soon as he steps into the room. 

“So,” she says, crossing her arms and grinning.

Clint raises an eyebrow and waits. She doesn’t seem threatening, especially tucked into the couch in fluffy pajamas, but Clint knows not to underestimate any Shield agent, even one that comes from the criminal hacking world.

“You’re Coulson’s puppy?”

Clint stiffens, automatically compartmentalizing the insult so he can still be a good teammate. Then he registers her tone: teasing and welcoming. Her scent is nothing but pleasant and a little amused with herself.

“I guess that’d be me,” Clint says with a wave.

“Aren’t you a day early?” 

Clint shrugs.

Skye holds his gaze for a long moment, assessing him, before she sighs. “He’s in his office.”

“I figured. Thanks.”

Skye turns back to the television, and Clint takes that as an acceptance. He crosses the room and ducks down the side hallway, Phil’s scent growing stronger with every step.


End file.
